


The Kidnapping of Greg Lestrade

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chains, Guns, I'm so sorry, Lots of unpleasantness, M/M, OW, Violence, hammer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is kidnapped. Mycroft is not pleased. Some secrets get told, and Mycroft takes Jim Moriarty on. Someone is going to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kidnapping of Greg Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea that had crossed my mind, then someone (detectiveinspectorgreglestrade) asked for it, having won the draw for me hitting 300 followers. 
> 
> Special big love and thanks to belovedmuerto of Tumblr, for some alpha-reading at a critical stage, and Daluci for even more. And Sheffiesharpe for making squeaky noises. And everyone on Tumblr for enduring the screaming fits.

Mycroft Holmes was in his office early that morning. Just after four, in fact. Two teleconferences were finished by five, and the morning’s reports from eastern Europe had begun to arrive. He was reading the summary from the Czech Republic when the mobile phone in his pocket chirped. Mycroft reached into his jacket for it just as there was a knock on his office door. “Come.” _Waterloo platform 3 06:20:03 -_ an automated message from ongoing surveillance _._ He frowned at the text as Anthea entered, hurrying over to his desk with a tablet.

“From the crime scene at Waterloo,” she said, handing it across his desk.

“Platform three?”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched the grainy stop-motion activity, noting the body on the track, the long, dark mac and grey hair of DI Greg Lestrade crossing in front of the camera, several SOCO uniforms setting up markers and taking photographs around him. The time stamp ticked past 6:19:50, :51, :52... He leaned closer. Greg’s head appeared again, this time falling backwards, arcing across the corner of the view, his arms out in front of him, grabbing at something and missing. And then the view was eclipsed by a face.

Mycroft’s fingers jabbed at the screen, pausing the footage, but there was no one in view. The markers remained on the ground, but the rest of the officers had all vanished. He rewound carefully, a frame at a time, and paused at 6:20:03, the wide brown eyes, thick, dark eyebrows, and delighted, goofy grin of a dead man leering happily at him. Mycroft’s brow furrowed, his lips tightened. The frame before showed the blur of Greg’s head disappearing off the bottom edge. Then Moriarty’s face simply appeared, clearly not a photograph, but also with no blur of movement. And the next frame showed a deserted scene. 

While winding the frames back and forth again, Mycroft asked, “How many missing?”

“Fifteen. Twenty-two were taken, but seven of them have turned up since.”

Mycroft looked up, his face impassive. “Dead?”

“Alive, but delirious. Drugged. No memory of what happened. Stripped naked and left tied to various signposts around the City.”

“Any pattern?”

“Still checking. Not found all at once.”

“Lestrade?”

“Not yet.”

“His mobile?”

“Switched off, sir.”

His voice remained calm, his words unhurried. “Trace all incoming calls to all of my numbers, and send copies of anything relevant to General Harrington. Get Vauxhall Cross moving, and... was Dimmock taken?”

Anthea consulted her Blackberry. “No.”

“Make certain that Hunter sends him to Waterloo. Have Sherlock’s minders keep him in sight at all times.” 

“Permission to break cover?”

Mycroft’s frown deepened, but he nodded before waving a hand dismissively. Anthea left silently, and quickly.

In the next hour, Mycroft checked all of the CCTV footage from every camera in the vicinity of Waterloo, and found nothing, which narrowed the search to the trains themselves, and the tracks and tunnels. By this point, he was liaising with MI6 and the Met, and five more officers had turned up naked and drugged. 

Greg Lestrade was not one of them.

There was no answer at any of the flats, not at Greg’s, no sign of him in any of his usual contexts. The last time his phone had been used, he was at Waterloo. There was nothing of interest on any of the cameras at the Met, or his car, or anywhere.

Mycroft set his mobile down carefully on his desk and folded his hands, watching it. It took   another seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds before it rang. 

“I thought you didn’t make mistakes.”

There was a breezy giggle on the other end of the phone, followed by a deep, semi-voiced sigh. “Now, why would you think that?”

“Say what you have to say.”

“You know I don’t like doing as I’m told.”

There was a scuffle, a tearing sound, and a gasp in a voice he expected, a voice he knew well; now it was darker, roughened, in pain but denying it. “Fuck him.”

“Not in a million years,” Mycroft sighed in response.

“How many dead?”

“None so far.”

There was another slurry of noise, and Jim Moriarty’s voice came back on. “Oh, you two lovebirds. You make me blush.”

“What is this about?”

“Why does it have to be _about_ something? Can’t a guy just have some fun?”

Mycroft waited. This was more about taunting, posturing, and learning weaknesses than it was about claiming responsibility or making threats. Moriarty had to know that Mycroft wouldn’t respond predictably to any kind of trap, as his best course of action would be to wait, not responding at all. And Jim did so like to have an audience that he could consider intelligent.

“I can really see now why everyone likes Sherlock best,” he said. There was a suggestion of reproach in the taunt.

Mycroft said nothing.

“Fine. But you’re sucking the joy out of my day.” Jim sighed noisily, like a peevish child. “You’ve found the spares by now, I’m sure.”

Mycroft touched the screen of the tablet, reading the updates. “Yes. All but three.”

“That’s because they aren’t spares,” Jim said, his voice hardening. “Trial runs,” he drawled. 

“So you do expect to make mistakes,” Mycroft said, running his fingers across the information on the screen of the tablet. 

“I just want to get it _right._ I want it to be special, you know? I don’t want to rush anything.”

“Of course.” Three still being held, all male: the DS had a partner, pregnant. PC Jones had a civil partnership, and PC Leverton was helping support his sister and mother. He flagged the names, sent the message on to Anthea. 

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me about my demands? Maybe you’re new to this whole hostage-taking thing.”

“You’ve said. You want to have some ‘fun.’” 

“I’m willing to share. It’ll be exciting! Have some tea, chat, get to know each other. All the stories you told me—do you remember?—they were all about Sherlock. I feel like I barely know you.” There was another silent pause, during which Mycroft’s eyebrows twitched. But then Jim added, “But I know what you like.” 

The line went dead.

Mycroft stroked and tapped the tablet, and after a moment, his office door opened to Anthea again. He looked up at her silently. Her eyes were still on the Blackberry in her hand. “He’s... on the M25, sir,” she told him. “Heading north. We’ve just lost the signal.”

“Harrington?”

“He’s been briefed. They’ve mobilised four divisions, on the road in the next ten minutes.”

Mycroft got to his feet, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. “Have all cars on standby. Keep track of where Sherlock is. Tell MI6 to have all available personnel report to Harrington.”

“Artillery?”

“Everything,” Mycroft said flatly, passing her on his way to the door.

 

Sherlock Holmes slammed through the door into the bullpen outside Lestrade’s office. “Where is he?” he asked loudly, his eyes on the open door to Greg’s desk.

Heads snapped around. John Watson tried to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. “Sherlock,” he muttered quietly.

“Well? Surely you must have a location by now. You must at least know where he _is._ ”

Sally Donovan stood up from her desk, sighing, and turned to face them. “Could you keep the distraction to a minimum? Some of us are trying to work.”

“Oh, _please,_ ” Sherlock said with a sarcastic laugh. “Do show me what real police work looks like. At your desks. Miles from anywhere that might do any good. Did you not hear? You’re missing a few co-workers, Sally. Or does that not matter, since Anderson isn’t one of them? You remember Lestrade, don’t you? Grey hair, horrible shirts, ate at his desk a lot?”

Sally’s face went white. “That’s my boss you’re talking about. And my _friend._ ”

“He’s my brother-in-law,” Sherlock snapped back, striding up to Sally and leaning forward into her face. “And I think family trumps employment, don’t you?”

“Oh, come off it.” Sally didn’t back off, but swayed away enough to look Sherlock up and down. “I think I’d’ve heard about it if you’d married Lestrade’s sister.”

Sherlock blinked at her. Then a slow, unpleasant smile crept across his face. “Dear God, you don’t even know, do you.” He took a step back, grinning, his eyes sweeping the rest of the room, taking in all the faces that were now staring at them over desks and cubicle walls. “None of you know. He’s worked beside you for years, and not one of you has ever looked at the man.”

“Sherlock, I’m asking you, please, don’t do this,” John said, very quietly.

“But look at them, John,” Sherlock said, flinging one gloved hand into the air in the general direction of the room. “Not one single one of them has ever actually _looked_ at him. Trained observers, eh? His _friends?”_ Sherlock was not so much pacing now as stomping, strutting a small, furious path the length of Sally’s desk and back again. “Did you not notice when he wasn’t in the pub so often? None of you noticed when his shirts changed? The suits he wore to court appearances? Weight loss? Different soap? Shoes? Sally, you even _met_ Mycroft, _with Lestrade._ Together. Nothing struck you about them? Didn’t notice the matching rings? Borrowed cufflinks?” Sherlock spun away from her, but that left him facing Lestrade’s empty office. He turned back, his hands in the air, looking for something he could punch or kick with some satisfaction. Nothing but glass walls and movable partitions for meters.

“Your brother. Mycroft Holmes. You’re saying Lestrade is...gay?”

Sherlock stopped and looked at her, perfectly still and focused. “I’m saying that he’s married to my brother. Who is male.”

“But... I mean, he was married. To a woman. I met her.”

“And he was divorced. Ever seen him date?” Sally shook her head, confused, but Sherlock took it as a response. “Never wondered why such an attractive man wasn’t playing the field? Making the most of it? Getting a bit old to be alone, isn’t he, a man like that, with no obvious flaws? Good job, intelligent, handsome?”

Sally’s eyes shifted away from him to John. Sherlock glanced aside, saw the look on his face, and mentally rewound his last few words. “What? I’ve got eyes.”

“He kissed me, though,” Sally said quietly, her fingers covering her lips.

“Who did? Lestrade?” John asked quickly, glancing at Sherlock.

“M-Mycroft,” Sally said, only hesitating a little.

“Oh, well, that just _proves_ it, then!” Sherlock spat. “I don’t care how many women, dogs, babies or pot plants you’ve seen him kiss, Sergeant Donovan! That you could ever, _ever_ have seen Mycroft and Lestrade together and not even realise they were married...!”  He laughed in utter frustration. “Lestrade was the best of you. The very _best_. Without him, there’s not a single spark of intelligence in the whole of the Met!” 

Sherlock’s tirade was met with absolute silence. John couldn’t breathe, let alone move. Sally’s face had gone from white to grey, holding her breath, and when she finally did breathe, there was a little gasp to it, and a blink. John looked at Sherlock, who had wrapped both his arms around his head, his fists clenched in his hair. He could even hear the dull, chunky pluck of some of the strands pulling out of his scalp.

_“Sherlock.”_

The voice made John flinch. It always would. Soft, smooth, always controlled. John looked over. Mycroft Holmes, tall, serious, grim, straightening his shoulders, lifting his chin and lowering it again as Sherlock turned and saw him, and instantly dissolved from avenging demon to horrified younger sibling. “Mycroft...!” Sherlock hurried over to him, his arms slightly raised. John wasn’t sure if he expected a hug or a handshake, but Mycroft shifted slightly, rocking his umbrella to one side and back, his eyes never leaving Sherlock, who had stopped before him, silent.

A pause, then Mycroft’s eyes lowered and his head tipped slightly to the side. Sherlock drew breath to say something, but then thought better of it. “John,” he barked, and strode to the door.

John jumped, but Sherlock never looked back. John turned reluctantly to Mycroft, who met his eyes, then looked away again, nodded slightly, and shifted to the side, inviting John along.

“Seems I missed quite a performance,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock had turned toward the exit, but turned back at Mycroft’s words. “I’ve never been good with stupidity.” 

Mycroft tipped his head away from the door. Sherlock frowned, an unasked question. Mycroft ignored it, turned, and walked away, leading them in the opposite direction. “I didn’t come here just to stop you ranting at the entire Metropolitan police service. Entertaining though it may have been.”

 

Mycroft opened the door, waving Sherlock and John in ahead of him. It was a conference room, and empty. John was hesitating, but Mycroft ignored this, passing him and going around to the far side of the table, opposite the door. He hooked the handle of his umbrella on the back of the chair, then removed his coat. John and Sherlock were both still standing. “Have a seat,” Mycroft prompted, folding his coat over the back of the chair and sitting down.

Sherlock took the seat next to him—at the head of the table—and John sat on Sherlock’s right, opposite Mycroft. “Why here?”

Mycroft took out his mobile and scanned through his messages. Nothing further contact from Moriarty, but plenty of others. “We’re about to have a meeting with the Chief Superintendent.”

“Where is he?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

“He should be with us shortly.”

“Does he know this?” Sherlock asked, staring past Mycroft at the window.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered in a measured voice, his eyes on his phone. Anthea had sent the message to Hunter, and there was an image, with a time stamp, of the man leaving his office. Which would mean the door was about to open, and it did. He looked up calmly into the astonished face of the Chief Superintendent. “But I only just sent the message,” the man stammered.

Mycroft smiled. “Ah, good. You did ask to see me.” 

Alistair Hunter was tall and lean to the edge of gaunt, his deep-set, grey-green eyes and the natural arch of his eyebrows giving him a perpetual glare. In spite of his fierce expression, he seemed to be genuinely disconcerted by Mycroft’s actual presence in the room. He swallowed, but to his credit, he shut the door and took the seat one chair down from John. “Right. So.” He glanced aside at Sherlock, who was regarding him with his usual complete lack of emotion. “I’ll assume that you know what happened this morning, then. Twenty-two officers...” 

“And all but four returned, yes. DI Greg Lestrade being the target.”

“That was my reading of it as well.” He frowned, and looked down at his notepad, flipping pages.

“At this point, the matter has become rather more serious. No one will take it amiss if the Met choose to step aside and cede the case -”

“ _I..._ will take it amiss,” Hunter said sharply, looking up at Mycroft. “Twenty-two personnel. _Twenty-two._ These people work for me. What makes you think I’m going to forget that?”

“I’m not suggesting you might forget. Or that you should.”

“Look, I know he’s family, to you, but -”

“Setting aside the personal, for the moment,” Mycroft interrupted. “I’ve already been contacted by the man responsible. James Moriarty.” 

At this, Sherlock’s restraint cracked. He shoved the edge of the table hard with both hands, pushing his chair back and launching to his feet. John stared after him, frightened now. “Moriarty has Lestrade?” John asked, his eyes wide.

“No, Mycroft, _no._ How can he be alive?” Sherlock growled, his back to the table as he paced. “I saw him put the gun in his mouth. I heard it, saw him shoot himself, right in front of me.”

“And John saw you leap from a building, and your corpse had no pulse,” Mycroft retorted. “And Henry Knight saw a gigantic hound. I think perhaps it’s best if we set aside the matter of _how_ he is alive, for the moment, and concentrate on what he is _doing.”_

“But it can’t be Moriarty! A dead man can’t have done these things, and his particular psychology would require us to handle things in a different way.”

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. “This is not about you.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft intently for a long moment. “Why has he changed?”

“Does it matter?”

“I won’t know until I know the answer.”

Mycroft lowered his eyes to his phone, breathed out, and returned his attention to Superintendent Hunter. “Has anyone else been contacted? Any other family?”

“No. Nothing that I am aware of.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. From any of the man’s predecessors, the line would have meant insecurity, doubt, or incompetence. He found himself glad that if this had to happen, it had happened when Greg’s management was at least capable of rationality. “Then it seems I am his chosen point of communication.”

“I’ll send a hostage negotiator.”

Mycroft smiled coldly. “With all respect, Superintendent, my resources are far greater than those of the Met. I assure you that I am quite capable of dealing with him.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Hunter snapped back, his eyes glaring, now. He had been fierce before, but now there was fire behind it. “I don’t _know_ you. I know your name. Mycroft Holmes. I know your reputation, and yes, you scare the piss out of me. I don’t even know your job title. I know you were involved with Alexander Ellis, and everything surrounding that. But that’s all anyone ever knows about you. You’re like some kind of nightmare that just turns up when the world is falling apart, and we all go along with it because you’ve fixed it before. I’ve got about as much chance of steering you as I have of shagging the Queen. You’re going to take charge of everything, I know that already, but just you remember that these are _my_ employees, my men, my friends and colleagues. _I_ am responsible for everything that happens to them. You can just disappear back into the fucking mists of Whitehall. You think you’re capable of dealing with this? Fine. I can’t fire you. I probably can’t even lodge a complaint about you, because then I’d have to know who your boss is. But just you remember that whatever happens to Paul Leverton, Peter Jones, and James Forbes, you will have to face me afterwards, and however much this is about you, Greg Lestrade is not the only man I need back.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “When I say ‘resources,’ I am talking about more than what you see in this room,” Mycroft said quietly. “James Moriarty had his day in court. He will not get another. Do you understand me?”

“No. That is not acceptable.” 

Mycroft’s expression hardened, one eyebrow raised. “This is not a negotiation.”

“You’re right,” Hunter said quietly, chewed his lip, weighing Mycroft’s words, and finally shook his head. “No. Even if you go through proper channels, no one is going to agree to allow you to negotiate when you are in a personal relationship with one of the hostages. And if you don’t go through proper channels, you know damned well I won’t agree.”

Even Sherlock seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for Mycroft’s response. Mycroft lowered his eyes to his phone, still silent on the table before him. He set his fingers along one side, his thumb precisely in the center of the opposite side, lining the edge up parallel to the edge of the table, then resting the fingertips of both hands on the surface to either side of his phone. “Sherlock, John, please wait for me outside.”

 

“Why did you let him win?” Sherlock asked. 

They were on the pavement outside of New Scotland Yard, watching a limousine pull up to the kerb. Sherlock and John ignored it until Mycroft stepped past them with a sigh. 

“What happened to your car?” John asked, leaning down with his hand on the door frame.

“Get in,” Mycroft said testily. John still glanced back at Sherlock before doing as he was told, and wound up sitting next to Mycroft on the back seat, while Sherlock took the seat opposite them, facing back.

“Better armour?” Sherlock mused. “Or are you expecting more passengers?”

“Quite enough of those now,” Mycroft said quietly, checking his phone again. No further word on the three other missing officers, as expected.

“Why are you allowing Hunter to run the negotiations?” Sherlock pressed. “He doesn’t have the experience dealing with him. He’ll never be able to see what’s coming.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock fumed in silence for a moment. “I assume your surveillance of Lestrade’s office wasn’t disrupted.”

“No.”

“Then drop me off at the scene.”

“The forensic teams have already been over it quite thoroughly.”

“Yours? Or the Met’s?”

“Both.”

“Have you reopened the station?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll have a look. I’ll want to see all the evidence they’ve already taken.”

“Your access is unrestricted.”

“What about the eighteen people recovered?”

“Check your e-mail. I’ve already sent you the details of the scenes closest to Waterloo.”

“Any of them indoors?”

“No.”

“Tricky.”

“Undoubtedly. Will you be requiring John?”

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes flicking away from the street outside the window, across John, to Mycroft, back to John, who shook his head and shrugged. “Why?”

“There may be some casualties ahead. You two have coordinated long-distance on cases in the past and if John remains mobile, you can be in two places at once.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, studying Mycroft’s impassive face. “You think he’s dead?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “No...” he said slowly, almost mockingly.

“Then why do you need a doctor?”

“I believe occasionally the living require medical attention even more than the dead.”

After another silent conference with John, Sherlock nodded. “We’ll need wifi and laptops.”

Mycroft tipped his head at Sherlock, looking at him from the corner of his eye before turning away. 

“Do you know what this is about?” Sherlock asked.

“What it’s always been about. Power. Resentments. Vengeance.”

“Are you talking about him, or us?”

John caught his breath as Mycroft’s head snapped back to Sherlock, and there was a moment of measuring as the two brothers weighed the other’s mood. Mycroft smiled first, faintly. “Ours is a battle to the death, little brother. Moriarty...is a war. To the kill.”

 

“So, uh...where are we?” John asked, following Mycroft. They had stopped at his office to change cars, the last having blacked-out windows. A laptop and earpiece for John had been sitting on the back seat, and he was now hugging them to his chest. Mycroft doubted that John expected them to be taken away; more that he felt naked without Sherlock around, while being dragged off on yet another sinister errand with little explanation. The dark, low hallway they were now in seemed to run for miles, closed fire doors every few meters blocking the view. Cheap vinyl floor tiles still shone with the reflected light of the fluorescent tubes overhead. And not very far overhead—Mycroft’s posture, usually so aggressively, exceedingly straight, was now instinctively hunched, his head lowered as they passed through each set of fire doors, his hair just brushing the top of the door frame.

“Do you actually think it will help if I tell you?” Mycroft countered.

“Yeah, I do. This is the part of hanging around with Holmeses that I dislike, actually. You willfully withhold information, and then wonder why the rest of the world takes so long to catch up.”

Mycroft paused at a door, glancing back at John with a half-smile. “I never wonder, John.” He set his hand on a panel, and leaned forward to look into a screen that lit up. There was beeping, whirring, lights, and he straightened again, stepping aside and waving John forward. “Palm flat. Focus on the back wall, try not to blink.”

John set his jaw, and tried to do as he was told. A line of brilliant, purpley-blue light swept across his vision, and then the machines were beeping again, and the panels dark, and he stepped back, glancing at Mycroft again.

“Now you’re on record.”

“And if I die, you can have me cloned.”

Mycroft smiled again. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’d need a significant tissue sample for that.” He opened the door and waved John through ahead of him.

“Morning, Gerald. Doctor Watson here will be joining me.” Mycroft said to the man behind the window. 

“You have your own Tube station?” John asked, eyeing the window and tiny office behind it.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Mycroft said briskly, signing the paperwork Gerald pushed under the window. “Sherlock’s insistence on wireless is impossible here, but you will have net access.” Another door, this time requiring thumb prints, and beyond it...was different.

“I get it now,” John said behind him. “This is the basement of the Diogenes. Only with fewer books and more computers. I didn’t think you went for technology. I thought that was Sherlock’s thing. And...fish. Wow.”

Mycroft looked around, imagining what the room would look like through John’s eyes. He was used to the wood paneling, the fireplace to ward off the underground chill, the web-seated desk chairs near the monitors arranged on wooden shelves that covered one wall and half of another, the upholstered armchairs by the fire. He sat down by the monitors and began calling up the reports on the scenes of where the individual officers had been found. One monitor for each incident, which meant he had to turn to the second wall’s monitors for the live updates.

“You should find a suitable cable in the cupboard.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “Have a seat. We’ll be here for a while.” There had been no attempts to contact him since the first phone call. Interesting. 

“Are we... alone here?” He heard John sitting down in one of the chairs by the fire—the one furthest from himself.

“There is more to this complex than this one room, yes, there are other people within reasonable range. We will not be disturbed.” He trusted John to understand that “disturbed” and “interrupted” were very different concepts. “I’d like you to look over the medical reports on the hostages who’ve been returned.”

“I think I’d be more use examining them in person.”

“That can be arranged, if you need to.”

“What, here?”

“If necessary.” Maps with references, photos, and text were already scrolling past on several of the screens.

 

Anthea came in some time later and took plates away. 

 

“Are these yours?”

Mycroft looked up, frowning. John was standing in front of the fish tank. “Why would you think that?” He stood up, moving next to John. The tank was six feet long, built into one wall of the room, away from the fireplace and the monitors. A rainbow of fish and corals rippled behind the glass, a silent, fierce surge of life against the stale, sterile backdrop of the bunker-like room. He understood why John had called it the Diogenes, but the atmosphere there, though silent, was much lighter and airier. Here, there was no escaping the sense of being deeply, emphatically underground.

“I dunno. It just seemed... the kind of thing you’d do. Makes no sense, flamboyant, probably  part of some...I dunno, organic cryptography experiment. Maybe they’re those fish with the poison bladders. Very handy in a Cabinet meeting, I should think.”

Mycroft smiled absently, his eyes tracking an electric-blue creature into the tentacles of an anemone. “Sherlock is lucky you put up with him, John.”

“Well. So far I’ve been lucky he’s never tried to keep anything alive at the flat. Apart from on a microscopic scale. And a frog. Everything else he’s brought in has been in pieces, mostly.”

“Sherlock’s not really suited to...life. Much more interested in how it stops. It’s neater. More precise. Whereas life, well. You never know what might happen.” He pressed a fingertip carefully against the glass without startling any of the fish. “There are much larger aquaria in a house in south London,” he said quietly. “Last time I stayed there, one had an octopus.”

“Really? And... is that one...?” John trailed off.

“I suppose I own it, yes. Hardly ever see it.”

“You...keep an octopus, in a house you never visit?”

“Time.” He raised his chin. “Still. Incredibly intelligent animals. A bit like monkeys and parrots—they require a lot of stimulation. They can get bored, and escape from a tank. Quite mesmerising to watch, though.” He sighed. “Probably not the same octopus now. They don’t live terribly long.”

There was a long silence before John spoke. “You know we’ll find him.”

“Hm?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Of course.” Mycroft glanced at him, and turned away. “Were you satisfied with the physical examinations?”

John returned to his laptop. “Uh, yes. Yes, it all seemed... they were all given a similar dose of the same drug, injections. No harm to most of them, a few bruises at worst. Seems to have been overwhelming force, all at once...”

 

Cold. He tried to reach for the duvet, but something was pinning his arm. Both his arms. He groaned, and that wasn’t right, either. Had he been drinking? Had Mycroft been drinking? Why else would he be so tangled up, and Mycroft wasn’t shifting an inch?

Greg opened his eyes, and it was all very, very wrong.

“Good _morning,_ King Greg of the little people!”

He jerked his face away from the madman. It was instinctive. He wasn’t even aware of recognizing him, but the animation of the face was wrong. He sounded like a children’s TV presenter, one who truly hated his job and hated children, and was going to do his best to fuck them up without actually deviating from his script. One of them was clearly insane, and until he had evidence to the contrary, Greg chose to believe that it wasn’t him.

“There, there, Greggy-bear. Shh, shh shh shh shhhh. Hush now. It’s all okay. It was just a bad dream. I’ve rescued you from the bad, bad man. He won’t ever hurt you again.”

Greg grunted, flailing with his legs. His arms weren’t just tangled in a duvet. They were encased in rope from his wrists to his elbows, wrapped together like the loops around a noose. He was cold because he was naked, lying on a concrete floor, and while his legs were free, his wrists were held in place. He had no leverage to twist against the rope, and from the clanking when he moved, he guessed that what held his arms was a chain. He didn’t want to take his eyes off of the madman long enough to verify it, though. His clothing had all been removed until he was left in just his underpants, which explained why he was cold—the cement floor beneath him didn’t seem to have warmed much from his body, so maybe he hadn’t been here long.

The immediate problem, though, was that his mouth was stuffed with the hard, rubber ball of a gag, with a leather muzzle strapped across to keep it in place. He tried to push the ball out with his tongue, but trying to spit it out just made him gag; without being able to close his mouth, he couldn’t stop it, and threw up. The bile burned, the muzzle damming his mouth, thin trickles running out at the corners of his lips. He squirmed onto his knees, using the chains on his wrists to pull himself upright even if it meant facing the wall, turning his back on James Moriarty. His mouth was salivating, trying to rinse itself clean, his nose dripping as well. He flung his head back and forth, trying to shake some of it loose, expecting to see blood spattering the walls. The pale brown mess was nothing like blood, but showed how close he was to suffocating. He rubbed his nose along the ropes, wiping at the mess streaming from it, trying frantically to dislodge the muzzle. All he succeeded in doing was pushing the ball against his throat, and he vomited again. What little of his mouth wasn’t filled with the gag was now filled with bile and semi-digested food, and he began to choke.

He felt hands on the back of his head and startled, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. He felt the gag tighten briefly, then fall loose. He retched again as the putrid mess fell out of his mouth, his nose and eyes streaming, everything burning and stinking. 

“Get a bucket. Clean him up.”

Greg was vaguely aware of footsteps moving away from him, and a few minutes later returning. He was still spitting and coughing, shaking in reaction. A plastic 5-gallon bucket thumped down next to him, sloshing water onto his leg. He didn’t even have time to look up before someone grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved his head down into the water. It was only for a second, however. He was released and snapped back upright, gasping and choking, throwing his head back and shaking it to get his hair off his face, spitting. He flung himself away from the bucket, scrabbling with his feet, hoping to knock it over.

The man standing over him now wasn’t Moriarty, at least. He was smiling, though, as he picked up the bucket and threw the water across Greg.

“Shut him up again,” Moriarty’s voice echoed around them. “I have to make a call.”

 

“Call for you, sir.” John looked up at Anthea, then across at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at the phone on the desk next to him, silent and dark, then up at Anthea. “Hunter should have taken it.”

“He did, sir. Forty-five minutes ago. It lasted less than a minute. Hunter notified us, and we tracked the next eight attempts he made to bypass Hunter. He’s refused to talk to anyone but you, and made it past all of the speedbumps.” 

Mycroft frowned. He’d hoped Hunter might have fared a little better than that. But it would have been the man’s first exposure to Moriarty, after all, and no amount of study could have made that any easier. And now Moriarty had tunneled in, past the token security, and apparently found it convincing enough to not be spooked. 

“Which account?”

“Monitor twelve.” She turned and left, her eyes already back on her Blackberry.

Mycroft glanced aside at John. “Don’t speak. He’ll want reactions—don’t give him any.” He clicked the mouse, and James Moriarty’s face appeared on the monitor, leaning close into a camera, staring just slightly below the lens. “Such insistence.” Mycroft said by way of greeting.

Moriarty’s face transformed from angry and somewhat bored to delighted. “Hello! Yes! I wondered where you’d got to.”

“What do you want?” Mycroft asked calmly.

“I can’t see you, though. Why can’t I see you?” His face moved a bit, and there was a sound as of someone furiously pounding keys. “Why...can’t...I...see...?”

“What do you want?” Mycroft repeated.

“Well, first, I want to see you. Don’t you think it’s rude to accept a video call without letting me see you back?”

Mycroft made adjustments, and Jim’s smile came back, a gleeful child being given a treat. “Hello again! My, so serious. Love the suit. You give good pinstripe, I’ll give you that.”

“Your point,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Oh, yeah, well. That Hunter chap—he’s not very nice, is he? I’m surprised you let Greg spend so much time around him. Seems rather attached to your little DI. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little som’n som’n goin’ on thar, y’know?”

Mycroft blinked, keeping his face expressionless. He could feel John shifting uncomfortably behind him, and ignored it. “I’m sure the Superintendent explained to you that I am not authorised to negotiate -”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Moriarty said, wrinkling his nose. “He’s got about as much power over you as a worm does over the foot that squishes it. And incidentally, do let me know when you’re going to squish him. I’d love to watch.”

“I have no intention of doing anything to affect the career of Alistair Hunter. He is in charge of this situation. I am not.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. _I...don’t...believe...you.”_

Mycroft stared at the screen, unblinking. There was really nothing to be said. It was all posturing, and no real moves. 

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’ve got planned.”

“The question has crossed my mind.”

And at this, Moriarty finally did seem genuinely pleased. It wasn’t a fake, theatrical smile, as so many of his others had been. “Aww, now see? I thought you didn’t care.”

That almost got past Mycroft’s façade. Of course he cared. He wasn’t like Sherlock. Even _Sherlock_ wasn’t like Sherlock, not anymore. Sherlock cared. He always had, one way or another. He simply hadn’t understood why he should. If he couldn’t see a reason for it, he didn’t allow for it. Mycroft had allowed him to set the issue aside until John had come along, and simply dragged Sherlock into facing up to himself. 

Mycroft, though, had always cared, and had never needed to question the reason behind it. He had envied Sherlock’s blunted emotions often enough, but had learned from them, as well. Emotions were a leash, a tether. That kept you attached, helped you stay in position, kept you grounded. And occasionally someone would try to use that attachment as something to drag you around. It was best to keep the emotional bonds invisible, out of sight, away from the temptations of the wicked. 

And of course marrying had complicated that. It wasn’t insurmountable, however. 

“Ahh, you’re finally getting around to threatening. Which means demands.”

The smile slithered off Jim’s face. “Good—you’re not wasting our time by pretending this is a negotiation.” He licked his lips, backing away from the camera. “Besides, I do know what you want. You’ll settle for the three spares. I will see you at Elephant and Castle, one hour. I want to see you. Not Hunter. If I see him, you will get nothing.”

Mycroft wasn’t surprised when the call was disconnected. He would have had no response, in any case. He opened the computer file with the recorded call, flicked through to the last few seconds, paused, and enlarged one side of the screen. John’s face leaned in over his shoulder. “That’s...that looks like a foot.”

“Lestrade’s.” He tilted his head, studying it.

“How can you—I mean, it’s not exactly clear.”

“I know how he moves.”

“But ...so he’s alive.”

Mycroft sighed, closing the image and sending the file off. “Of course he is.”

“You can’t, I mean, I don’t want to worry you. Look. I was in his place, once.”

“And now you’re here.” Mycroft turned his head and looked up at John. He was so comfortingly transparent. He was concerned about upsetting Mycroft with too many details about the unpleasantness of Moriarty. “You lived, John.”

“Yeah, but... no, forget it.”

Mycroft couldn’t help smiling. It made John even more uncomfortable, of course, as well as curious. He turned away, back to the monitors, and began sending out the messages to coordinate the meeting Moriarty had requested. He kept the arrangements simple; this was nothing like the endgame, and there was no reason to expend excess resources on it. 

In the background, he heard Sherlock conferring with John about the scenes where the other hostages had been found. Mycroft had ensured that they both had free and equal access to the reports, and Sherlock was tallying the details of the scenes with John’s findings on the medical reports. Nothing of interest was mentioned, and he kept his attention on the live video feed from Syria until John called for him.

“Mycroft? Sherlock’s found something at the... Mycroft?”

He paused, flicked on the screensaver, and turned to face John. “Yes?” he said, getting to his feet.

“Sherlock’s found how Moriarty doctored the footage from the scene. Was that... are you watching the news?” John asked, pointing at the monitor with his thumb.

“This evening’s news, possibly. More likely tomorrow’s.” He stood behind John, his hands in his pockets, seeing Sherlock’s puzzled face in a small window of the screen, another window showing the footage from the double-crime scene on the platform at Waterloo. “James Moriarty was not at the scene,” he commented.

“You never thought he was,” Sherlock said, his face going impassive.

“Always good to have the proof. And the original murder?”

“Yes. Actually a double-murder—Moriarty forced the murderer into suicide. I found the other body in the tunnel.”

“Dimmock has accepted your findings?”

“I’ve no reason to believe he hasn’t.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and started to move away.

“John said you’re watching the news?”

Mycroft glanced back. “You don’t need to know. Nothing to do with this case.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

He put on a patient smile. “The world doesn’t stop just because James Moriarty is having a whim.”

“Jesus, Mycroft.” This was John’s disapproval. “The world doesn’t stop just because you blinked, either.”

“And how would you know, John?” he asked calmly. “Have you ever known me to, as you put it, blink?”

“I remember this one time where you were gone for—how many months, again?”

His face hardened. John would always push his luck. Sherlock knew where to kick and how hard, but he also knew, absolutely, when not to. John hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet. “How could you possibly know what might have changed during that time? What I might have prevented? What I might have helped? You can’t know what was lost. I do. And it is a constant weight on my shoulders.” He watched John open his mouth silently, working for a response, and rescued him with another smile and deep breath. “Sherlock. Two officers found in the vicinity of Victoria.” 

“Abbey Orchard Street and Douglas Street,” Sherlock replied promptly. 

“Those two officers—Keene and Williams. They were distantly related. Williams was the first officer found, and his grandmother owned a house in that area.”

“Most likely coincidence.”

“Have you spotted any other connections?”

“I’ll text you anything I learn.”

Mycroft was back in front of the monitors, the call with Sherlock ended, the next time John interrupted him. “Uh, look, I don’t know where we are, but...hadn’t we better get moving? It’s twenty minutes until you’re supposed to meet him.”

“No.”

“Yyye-es, yes it is. He said an hour, and that was at ten past one.”

“It was at one eleven, and it is now one forty-seven,” Mycroft corrected. 

“Good, right, then. So... where are we? Are we _at_ Elephant and Castle?”

The door opened and Anthea stepped in again. She glanced at John. “Sir, line one is CS Hunter again.”

“And?” He frowned at her. There was no need to come and tell him this.

Anthea had the grace to look uncomfortable, looking away from his eyes for a second. “I’ve been sent to confirm that there’s been no change.”

“No,” he said. “None.” He enunciated the words carefully, cleanly. “I don’t intend to go anywhere.”

John’s head snapped up, and he looked back and forth from Anthea to Mycroft. “Hang on, did you just say you’re... you’re not going to meet him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But...Lestrade! You can’t just leave him there!”

“I won’t. But I will not play Jim Moriarty’s game by his rules.”

“This isn’t a game!”

“To him it is,” Mycroft countered. “You’ve seen it before, John.”

“I didn’t just see it. I _was_ it,” John said, working to keep his voice even. “I only had a bomb strapped to me. God knows what he’s had time to think up now. Christ, Mycroft!”

Mycroft turned his gaze back to Anthea. “Grade seven driver.”

“Sir, there is only one grade seven available.”

Mycroft blinked, considered for a moment, then nodded, waving her out with one finger.

Anthea nodded, and left the room.

“Don’t do this, Mycroft. I’m begging you.”

Mycroft glanced at John, then turned his attention back to the map. “You have to trust me, John. You will be Sherlock’s eyes at the scene, and there may be need of your medical expertise.”

John was already grabbing his coat and disconnecting the laptop. “I’d say I hope you know what you’re doing, but.” John gave him an eloquent look, his lips in a firm, disapproving line. 

 

Jim Moriarty leaned on the railing and stared down at the people on the lower level of the Elephant and Castle shopping center. Tesco’s shopping bags. Backpacks being dragged behind children. Computer bags. 99p, Boots, Iceland. Prams. He turned up the volume of his earbuds and sighed. No one was going to come anywhere near him unless they had to. Baggy black cargo trousers, only the neckline of his white T-shirt showing under his black hoodie. He’d spent a little while lounging against the sign that said the wearing of hoods was prohibited, but gave up after ten minutes. There had been a promising moment when a gorgeously crabby female security guard had noticed him, but a little girl had tugged on her hand and cried at her and dragged her away. Something about a fight. He made a mental note of the little girl, in case he was bored later on. No child should grow up being so scared by the sight of blood if it wasn’t her own.

With two minutes to go, he wandered over to the entrance, staring in the direction of the bus shelter. Three buses were stacked up, a fourth pulled in as he watched. He shook his head sadly. Two of them were on the 12 route, as well. One bus pulled away, two others tried to take its place. In the jam of traffic, he saw a sleek, shining black Audi weave past the snarl. It was angled away from the kerb and gaining speed on an inner lane of the roundabout. Jim let himself nod along to the music in his ears, turning away from the doors and going back to the railing overlooking the lower level. He closed his eyes, spreading his hands to either side along the rail, tipping his head back and grinning.

He felt someone touch the rail next to his right hand, a slight tremor, a tiny shifting against his skin. He turned his head and opened his eyes.

And looked down. His smile disintegrated.

A young woman stood next to him, one elbow propped against the rail, her fingers cupped around the edge of a brilliant blue motorcycle helmet. The deep brown of her hair, twisted up neatly against the back of her head, contrasted with the pale blue of her eyes. She was smiling, one of her front teeth showing the smallest fraction of a twist—just enough to show that her beauty was absolutely natural, and all the more unreal, for that. 

Her smile, though: just a bit complacent, too confident, too relaxed. It went well with her leathers, which were the same shade of blue as her helmet. She unzipped her jacket very slowly, reached inside, and pulled out a phone. She held it out to him.

He took it. She winked, and walked away.

The phone was switched on, and already vibrating. “You could at least have let me keep her,” he said, holding it up to his ear, his eyes drifting back to the mundanity below him.

“I’m not stopping you,” came the liquid, calm voice of Mycroft Holmes.

“You were supposed to be here,” Jim said, petulant. “Jeez, dad, why don’t you ever _play_ with me?”

“You asked to see me.” The emphasis was on _see._ Jim took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen to see Mycroft blinking patiently at him, in exactly the same room he’d been in an hour before. 

“Ohh, _dull,”_ Jim groaned, rolling his head back. He reached up to adjust his hood. “And so stupid, too. Pissing me off like this is only going to make me hurt him.”

“I would say this has to stop, but part of your point is that you don’t _have to_ do anything. Isn’t it?”

“I’m hardly likely to withhold a spanking just to spite you, though, am I?” Jim looked away from the phone. There was such a thing as too much smugness, and the proof was looking back at him. Actually, any smugness that wasn’t his own was always going to be a problem. And he really didn’t like problems.

“Then my actions should have no bearing on your own. Good. I think we’re coming to understand each other.”

“It’s not the start of a beautiful friendship,” Jim drawled, strolling away across the arcade. “It might be the end of something beautiful. See, some people think it’s narcissism, but I’m just such a sucker for big brown eyes.”

“I feel obliged to give you a chance, although I know you’re too stupid to take it,” Mycroft said, his voice still disgustingly bland. Jim’s fingers tightened on the phone. “If you go outside now and get on the number one hundred and ninety-six bus that should be arriving, it will take you to Vauxhall.”

“And why would I want to do that, Mister Holmes?” Surely the man could see he was walking in the opposite direction. He glanced at the phone, and snorted quietly at the view of the top of Mycroft’s head—not a view he would ever normally have, of course. Barring extenuating circumstances, which he would definitely make a point of arranging, now.

“Because when you don’t, I will be able to comfort myself with the knowledge that I did give you a chance.” Mycroft looked up and gave him a tight, prissy little smile.

“Do you find that you get a lot of good cooperation with a vague threat? See, I always find that people really need you to focus their minds on the specifics. For example, I am right now walking. And when I get where I’m going, I am going to make sure that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is not able to do this again, himself. Walk, I mean. I will use a hammer, and I will have him on his knees in front of me. And while I’d like to get a lot more specific with you, I’m not quite sure of all the names of those fiddly little bones in the feet. I’ll fill you in later, off the X-ray, shall I?”

There was no response. He looked back at the phone again, and the screen was dark.

“He hung up on me,” Jim said aloud, amazed. Someone looked over at him sharply, but kept walking. He ignored it, too impressed by the silent phone in his hand. “He actually hung up on me. That superior bastard actually...” He shook his head, smiling wildly, lost for words. He took the stairs to the platform two at a time, and dropped the phone onto the rails under the wheels of the incoming train.

 

“Step outside,” Jim shouted at the guard as he passed. No need to look back. If the man stayed, he’d be dead very soon. Maybe he’d kill him anyway, as dessert. But first the entrèe.  The man saw him coming and had the sense to try to struggle. Not much good with his arms bound and chained to the wall, but he shoved himself back against the cold concrete, his wet hair and shorts clinging to him. They’d given up on the ball gag and settled for duct tape, but he probably knew better than to try to scream anyway. “Party’s just getting started,” Jim told him, dropping the canvas sling he’d been carrying. Those big, brown eyes had never been bigger or wider. Lestrade kicked a bit, but not enough. He wasn’t very good at it.

Jim grabbed the waistband of Lestrade’s pants and dragged them off him, leaving him naked. “This’ll probably get you all nervous, but it can’t be helped.” He pulled the hoodie off over his head and threw it aside, then kicked open the sling and pulled out the tripod. “So your honey,” he went on, setting it up. “That long streak of cat’s piss. _God,_ how do you put up with him? He’s losing his hair, you know. Funny, how his baby brother seems to have enough to stuff a horse, and Mycroft’s is worn away, like he burned it off by thinking too much. Maybe that’s it, actually. Have you ever noticed the way his nose hangs down at the end? Maybe that melted with the heat from his brain too, eh? I just don’t see how you can kiss him. But maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s all about the fucking. Does he like it up the arse? Or is that your place in the scheme of things? You know, I don’t really care. No, really, I don’t want to know. I know, I know, a bit rude to ask you questions when, you know...” He gestured with the hammer. “You can’t talk and all. But it’s fine. I’m not really all that interested. And you’re bound to get a little loud here, so I’m just going to leave that tape on. Keeps the noise down. Not that the neighbours would hear. And generally, I don’t mind a little screaming, myself, but you’re bound to get... very, _very_ loud. And I’m sorry—well, I’m not, really—but this is all your Mycroft’s fault.” 

He paused, finally, giving Lestrade his most sincere regret-face. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. All he had to do was show up. I didn’t even _ask_ for anything. Just... show up. And I was even good—I let his three other little friends go. So now, I get to concentrate all of my attention on you.” He squinted through the camera on top of the tripod. It was a lovely view of everywhere Lestrade could get to while still chained. He straightened, and hit _record._

“Now. We’re all alone, just the two of us. Well, three of us,” he amended, glancing back toward the camera. “Does that make you nervous? I’ll bet you’re nervous. But,” he paused, took a deep breath, spreading his arms. “Take a deep breath, just relax, be yourself. Anything you’d like to say to the viewers at home? Okay, let’s be honest. One viewer, in his office. I don’t even think Mycroft Holmes _has_ a home.”

On the word _has,_ he brought the hammer down on Lestrade’s foot. The move was fast—he didn’t telescope it. It wasn’t as hard as he would have liked, but it was enough to get a guttaral scream. Even without the tape on his mouth, it was fierce. Jim grinned in response. “Good! Now I think we’re on the same page.” He paced a bit, watching Lestrade try to curl into himself, knowing it wouldn’t really be allowed. “All he had to do, really, was leave his office. He’s just so incredibly lazy. Do you understand that? I don’t. Sherlock’s like a manic hummingbird on amphetamines. You can play with him. Like a cat with a laser pointer—give him a little flash, and he’ll pounce all over the place, try to crawl across the ceiling. It’s hilarious.” 

He had to pause to catch his breath. Lestrade really didn’t want to flatten out. Jim had to turn him over and sit on the back of his knees, and even that only worked after he’d been punched a few times in the head. It was inelegant, but it was just between them and the camera, so that was all right. “That big brother. He really does not play well with others. He doesn’t play _at...all.”_ It took two tries to get a satisfying crunch from the left foot. Even then, maybe it was only a toe. “I don’t see the _point_ of him.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, staring down at Lestrade’s feet. He thought of tickling them, but it didn’t seem like such fun now. 

“I don’t see what all the fussing is about,” Jim said, sliding off the man’s legs onto the floor beside him, careful not to sit in the damp patch. “It’s not like I’m going to make you run a marathon. You can probably have the next few days off, how about that? Just laze around here. With me. And most of the time, it can be just the two of us, eh?” 

Jim reached down and hauled on the older man’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back. That perfect, handsome face was twisted up, terror and pain and fury mixed in the dark, chocolatey pools of his eyes. Snot and tears wet his face, and Jim frowned at him disapprovingly, but only briefly. “Aw, come on. _I_ didn’t know he had a thing about playing hard to get.” He got to his feet and went to fetch his discarded sweatshirt, then sat down again on the floor next to Greg and wiped his face with the sleeve of the hoodie. “Allllll better now. There you go. Nice and clean. All ready for Jim.”

It really was a fantastic face. Jim couldn’t fault Mycroft on his taste. Only the best. He could use a shave, but that was only fair. And the grey and black mottled together made him look a bit tired, but also fierce. Jim was inclined to think this one was a bit more wily than Mycroft. More of an animal, straightforward. Strong jaw, slight dimple in the chin, the dark, wet lashes against his cheeks. 

It was time. Time to see the lips.

Jim clawed at the edge of the tape, then ripped it off Lestrade’s face. Of course it hurt. He watched the flesh pull before the adhesive gave way. It wasn’t a pretty sound, the one Lestrade made then, but that was irrelevant. Jim looked up at the man’s hands, clutching at the chains, the straining of his muscles in his upper arms. Just a bit of fat there, just enough to smooth the curves, a little flabby in places, but balanced by superior experience. It would have been nice to enjoy the whole package, but that would have to be a treat for another day. The man was hardly even tame yet, let alone house-broken. 

He scrambled up to a crouch, giving himself enough leverage to twist the bound arms, hurt him enough that he lost his grip on the chain. Lestrade had a dirty mouth on him, too. He was going to have to make sure he kept a copy of this to watch at night, maybe with popcorn, maybe with honey. Once Lestrade figured out what he was after, Jim found out how strong those short, thick fingers really were, but he relaxed again after a kick in the kidney. And that would definitely leave a mark.

Jim worked the ring off Lestrade’s finger, scraping the skin a bit but without actually breaking the bones. He set it in his palm and held it up to the light. “My God, this is a thing of beauty. I am quite impressed. I would have guessed old Mycroft was more of a plain-gold-band type.” The whorls and ridges of silver-toned metals looked like woodgrain. He hefted it. “Feels expensive. Must have been deeply moving when you exchanged them. I can only assume that Mycroft’s matches. I’d like to know for sure, but he never wants to come out and play.” Jim looked down at Lestrade, who had managed to get onto his knees and was staring up at him fixedly, panting. “Did you promise to be faithful? Be true to each other, forsaking all others? Rings were a sign of your pledge? To be worn always, become a part of you? Symbolizing the joining of, what, man and husband? So when I’m touching this, it’s almost like...I’m touching _him?_ Does that bother you?”

He raised the ring to his lips and kissed it lightly, then casually put it into his mouth.

Lestrade lunged forward, straining the full length of his chains, his arms bent back over his head. “Now, now,” Jim cautioned, tipping his head, the ring tucked into his cheek. “If you want it back, I’m willing to give it to you. All you have to do is ask.”

Lestrade’s head turned away and he drooped for a moment, then gave a growling roar and wrenched at his chains again. Jim took a step back, genuinely surprised by the man’s outburst and frustration. “Very nice! So demonstrative! I like that in a man! So _eager!_ I get goosebumps just looking at you!”

It took a few minutes, and his fists were getting sore, but eventually Lestrade was worn out, and broken back down to despair. When he finally looked up at Jim, eyes red, tears falling, and whispered, “Please...” Jim grinned a lazy, crooked smile that only moved one side of his face. 

“Please what?”

“Please give it back.”

He tilted his head, considering. That was probably the clearest invitation he could get. Especially as the man probably didn’t really know what he was asking for, and that made it all the more glorious. Jim knelt down in front of him, allowing himself to look sympathetic, moved, even compassionate. He slipped one hand around Lestrade’s cheek, rubbing the stubble with the heel of his hand, his fingers tracing the edge of the other man’s ear. “It’s okay, see, it’s right here...” He opened his mouth, showing the circle of metal cupped on the flat of his tongue. “It hasn’t gone anywhere yet.”

“Give it back. Please,” Lestrade repeated, his voice tight from holding back a sob.

“Of course, my darling. Of _course_ I will.” Jim leaned in.

Lestrade pulled back, and fought a bit. Then there was a blissful, gentle moment of calm as Jim’s tongue passed the ring to his, and he almost thought there was genuine gratitude in the melting glide of muscle and skin, and he dove after it. The ring flicked over Lestrade’s tongue and down his throat in a moment, and Jim fell back as he choked on it. It was all a bit noisy and messy then, and ended with Lestrade lying on the floor, gasping for breath. At least the ring had stayed down. Jim didn’t want to have to push it down again through a mouth that tasted of vomit and bile.

Jim Moriarty turned off the camera, and went back to the entrance of the abandoned plant. “All done. Gonna need some furniture now. You’ll have to clean him up again. And he needs re-taping.”

 

Anthea held the door open, and John Watson entered the room. Mycroft looked up. Anthea was still in her biking leathers, and nodded once at him before leaving, shaking her hair free as she went. Mycroft watched John’s eyes follow her, and looked up with a brisk smile. “So. All back in one piece?”

“Sort of. Three hostages. He left them sitting at the bottom of the subway stairs with a sign saying ‘homeless please help’ on it. Wrapped in blankets, this time, so it wasn’t immediately apparent that they were naked. Which they were.”

“Of course.”

“None of them could remember how they got there, all had the same injection punctures as the rest. But Greg...wasn’t one of them.”

Mycroft sighed, his lips thinning. “You didn’t really expect otherwise, did you, John?”

John scowled at him, and flopped back into a chair by the fire. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have made Moriarty any happier by your little stunt. Why did you do that? What can you possibly hope to gain by pissing him off?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course it’s fucking complicated!” John exploded, bouncing to his feet again. “I can tell because it’s got both you and Sherlock, and Jim fucking Moriarty, who apparently can’t stay dead! This is a man who -”

“I know everything he’s done,” Mycroft cut in, his voice barely above a whisper. He raised his eyes to John, barely moving his head. John was frozen in place. “I know a great deal about what he intends to do as well, if given a chance, and right now I am concentrating on withholding that from him.”

“So I should sit down, shut up, and stick with the medical evidence,” John said, keeping his voice even.

“That would be ideal.”

John fumed for a moment, but then turned and went back to his seat, wrenching open the laptop.

 

John was once more on a call with Sherlock when Anthea came in next, back in her business dress. “This came for you, sir.”

Mycroft glanced aside at her, saw the camera phone, and smiled grimly. “No thank you.”

She hesitated, and he felt John look up. “What would you like me to do with it?”

“Have it processed with the rest of the evidence.”

“So...you know it’s from Moriarty, but you don’t think you should see what it is?”

John’s conversation had fallen silent, and Mycroft sighed. It was frustrating to have to deal with so many people second-guessing. “Of course I shouldn’t see it. It will hold some evidence of Lestrade’s torture, or something else calculated to cause maximum upset. The salient point is that Moriarty wants me to have it. Therefore I will not take it. If there is any useful information on it, I’m sure the forensic team will be able to find it. And Sherlock, of course,” he added, casting a look in John’s direction, knowing his brother was still listening.

“I’m at Bart’s,” came Sherlock’s voice. Noncommittal.

“Would you like to see it first, or shall I send it to Vauxhall and you can access it in your own time?” Mycroft asked.

“Vauxhall,” Sherlock said. Anthea might not have noticed the hesitation, but John and Mycroft did, and shared a look. 

Mycroft felt the point had been made. “John, if you would, join Harrington at Vauxhall as well. You should be able to finish your examinations on the journey, but communication once you arrive will be at the General’s discretion.”

And

“Hang on, what?” John blurted. “Harr... _General_ Harrington?”

“Yes, Captain. Being a civilian, I cannot order you, of course. But I feel your expertise would be of most use there.”

“Yes, of course,” John said, and then looked surprised that he had. 

“Anthea, please take John over to see him. Make sure the General knows who he is.” He smiled, and turned back to his e-mail.

 

A few hours later, Mycroft felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked up; Anthea, again. “What is it?”

“I thought you’d want to know, sir. Dr. Watson has been over the video. At his request, we’ve added a military ambulance to the convoy.”

“No location yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell them to focus on any leads in Hampshire.”

“Anything specific?” She began thumbing her Blackberry.

“Harrington will see it. If he doesn’t, Ellis certainly will.”

“Yes sir.” 

He put his face back in his hands. Stillness, silence. It was all so close. “They’ll know. They’ll both see it,” he whispered.

 

“We’re ready for you now, sir.”

Mycroft raised his head. All the monitors were dark now. The fire was nothing but glowing embers, and Anthea was a dark shadow against the sterile glare from the hallway’s lighting. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, accepting the coat she held out to him and sliding into it. “Have they found his perimeter?”

“The first one was taken out two minutes ago.” She consulted her Blackberry. “The second is in sight.”

He held out his hand for his umbrella, and she unhooked it from her elbow absently. “I’ve opened the feed to your mobile.”

“No need. How close can we land?”

“Close enough, sir. The car will be in place.”

“Sherlock is still at Vauxhall?”

“He won’t leave Anderson alone.”

Mycroft glanced at her, but there was nothing more than her usual vague, neutral-but-pleasant background smile. “Keep an eye on him. The last time those two were left alone in a lab, it took a week to replace the ceiling and get all the glass out of the wall.”

 

It was still dark when Mycroft reached the building. The car had covered the last mile at a crawl, and now the headlights finally showed one guard outside the door, already listening to his radio and gesturing, presumably at other guards out of sight. “Stop here,” Mycroft ordered the driver. “Turn off the lamps,” he added after a moment. They waited in silence and darkness for several minutes, until the guard signaled them forward. “Pull aside,” Mycroft said abruptly. The rough track had widened slightly, and there was room for the car to turn around. 

Mycroft stepped out of the car. He watched the guard’s eyes track the car, having to swivel to the extreme to keep it in sight without moving their heads. He paused before the door, assuming they would not want him to open it himself. There was time to blink twice before there was a sound from inside the building, and the door opened from the inside. Mycroft waited until it was pulled all the way open before stepping forward, into the cool dimness of the factory.

A hand on his arm stopped him almost immediately. He turned and looked down at the hand, and followed it up the arm to the man stopping him. A show of force, then. The man pointed at Mycroft’s umbrella, and that really was disappointing. Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh and handed it over without a word. Without prompting, he held his arms up for the obligatory pat-down, taking the moment to let his eyes wander across what he could see—two banks of disused machinery to either side of the door, while the main floor of the building was empty. He could hear the sharp, echoing sound of footsteps crossing toward them, a crisp echo reverberating off the metal walls, the only sound except for a soft metallic clinking. 

“I’d say this is an unexpected pleasure, but that would just be silly,” Jim said, stopping just within sight of Mycroft, watching him being frisked. “I’m not even surprised it took you so long. But why _did_ you wait?”

“Knowing and being ready are two different things.”

Jim smiled faintly, keeping his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “All the way up his legs, boys,” he added, holding Mycroft’s gaze as the hands moved from going through the empty pockets of his coat to rubbing all over his groin and buttocks.

“Do you really think I’m armed?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the groping.

“Oh, I know you are. And believe me, if I can take it from you... I will.”

“I wouldn’t waste my time bringing conventional weapons to a biological war.”

“That’s good. Though I find that a gun does make people just as dead.”

The guards had finished with him, and Mycroft lowered his arms. “May I?”

Jim’s dead, flat gaze shifted to the guard, and he nodded once. “Keep an eye on him, though, boys,” he added, turning his back and raising his voice as he walked away, wordlessly inviting Mycroft to follow.

Mycroft’s eyebrow twitched higher as the bright red laser dots appeared on the stark white of his shirt. He didn’t bother to lift his eyes to the shadowy catwalks far above the weak suspended lights. The invisible snipers were hardly likely to respond to a glare. Mycroft followed Jim, removing his coat as he did. 

Once past the machinery, Mycroft saw the figure huddled in the far back corner. There were two chairs and a small table ten feet from the wall as if someone were trying to turn the space into something homey and the bruised, naked body of Lestrade were simply a piece of art. Clearly this was where Jim was leading him. When he stopped near the chairs, Mycroft kept walking, passing within arm’s reach of the madman, but never letting his own gaze move away from the dark, rich brown eyes staring back at him. One was nearly swollen shut. The chain on his arms was long enough for him to stand, short enough to force him to keep his arms up over his head when he sat. His mouth was covered with a piece of duct tape that crossed his hairline at the back of his neck; it hadn’t been on him long, as there was blood in his hair but none on the tape. Bruising covered much of his torso, his feet were dark with dried blood. There was a kind of madness to his gaze, the stillness of it, while the rest of his body was wracked with shivers that rattled the heavy chain. 

Mycroft’s expression never changed, his steps never faltered. He bent slightly and draped his coat across Greg, covering him as well as he could, then turned back to join James Moriarty by the chairs. He sat down and looked across at the other man. And waited.

He could feel Moriarty studying him, looking for a crack, an emotion, any tiny fingerhold. “Somehow, I was hoping for a little more,” Jim said.

Mycroft tipped his head enquiringly. “Such as?”

“Tears, shouting, vows of vengeance, the usual?” Mycroft waited, but there didn’t seem to be anything more to be said on that subject. 

He watched Jim gulp back a laugh, and scanned the room behind Jim. Corrugated metal on the outside, concrete on the inside. Not a great deal of finesse. A practical, functional shelter for machinery, and nothing more.

“See, I know you’re not all ice. I know you care about him. I know he’s your weakness. There’s no point trying to hide it.”

Mycroft glanced back at him when he paused. “And how, exactly, does he make me weak?”

“I’d take off his gag and let him tell you himself, but I don’t actually think he’d like to tell you about what we’ve been up to. _Would you, Greg?_ ” Jim suddenly raised his voice, and there was a corresponding rattle from the chain on Greg’s hands. Neither man turned to look at him.

Jim smiled, and scratched his cheek. “I am wondering—how did you think you were going to leave here?”

“How did you think this would end?” Mycroft countered.

Jim gave a little snort of a laugh. “No, but seriously.”

“I thought I would walk out, when we’re finished,” Mycroft said with a small shrug.

“Hee! I suppose you might. I might let you.”

“My question wasn’t rhetorical,” Mycroft prompted, after a pause.

“You haven’t figured it out?” Jim asked, and Mycroft raised his chin in silent enquiry. “You obviously know that I can’t kill him.” 

“Obviously.”

“So I’m going to keep him.”

Mycroft shifted his feet slightly. “Why?” he asked.

“Because he is quite beautiful.”

“He is,” Mycroft agreed, then added, “well, he was, until you did this.” He heard a small sound from Greg, but didn’t turn to look at him.

“Ohh, that...” Jim waved a hand, wrinkling his nose. “It’ll heal. Besides. For good behaviour, I’m willing to allow...conjugal visits.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly as Jim’s wandered the length of him. There was an internal logic to it. “And why would I allow this?”

“I haven’t been deafened by your objections so far,” Jim said.

Mycroft smiled. “Again, not rhetorical.”

“Because if you don’t agree, then I hurt him. And I keep on... _hurting_ him.”

_“Why would I allow this?”_ Mycroft repeated, and this time, his voice was ice.

“Says the man with the guns aimed at his chest?”

“And what happens to you, after you shoot me?”

“I’m not saying things wouldn’t get very exciting, but you know how much I love that. And after you’re dead, I’d still have Greg.”

“For how long?” It was interesting. Moriarty genuinely didn’t seem to care. Surely it wasn’t because he hadn’t thought about it. But it was equally impossible to believe that James Moriarty would not want to brag.

“That’s the chase. That is the fun part. That is the part you just don’t get. So stolid, establishment, dependable... You have that ridiculous club of yours, and your job, and that’s it. Oh, and Lestrade, but it’s not like you stray far off your path for him. You’re like a dog that’s been on a leash for so long that even when it’s taken off, you stay at your master’s side because you’ve forgotten how to _run.”_

Mycroft waited for a moment, but Jim’s enthusiasm had died back again, the fire going out of his eyes even as he turned away, looking back over at Lestrade. “You think you can use Greg to chain me to you. The emotional bond.” He licked his lips, settling back in his seat. “In order to pull me around that way, you would have to be very sure of the strength of the bond, and your grip. A knife fight, each handcuffed to the other. You had better be sure of your reach and your balance, because that can just as easily be used against you.”

Silence. Just a moment, but Moriarty was meeting his eyes, quite still, holding his breath. Then he blinked, and said, “No, didn’t get a word of that. _What?”_

“You can’t kill him,” Mycroft said. “You can’t kill me. You think you can run, and hang onto him? Torture him continually? Do you think you can evade me? Then why are you here? Why didn’t you run? Why take him in the first place?”

“Your brother.” The words came out as a reflex. “What he did. I was willing to let things be—sure, he lived, but so did I. He got his precious reputation back. For a short, glorious time, though, he was nothing. I’m still proud of it. And I think deep down, you were just a little bit impressed, too. I was ready to just let things go. But then, you stripped me, left me naked, and alone.” Jim’s voice had been casual, but now it was gathering speed, more emotion coming out, bile and resentment and fury tightening his throat. “You systematically rooted out everyone who had ever worked with me, and destroyed them. No matter how small or petty. I had nowhere left to go. China—gone. Pakistan—do you even know what your little brother can do with a sword? And no one’s ever going to find out, because he’s a Holmes, and you will cover it all up and smooth his path.”

“Are you suggesting we should have shown you mercy? You were a dead man, and even so, had only seemed to take your life in the hope that it would force Sherlock to end his. What kind of mercy should you have been shown?”

“Oh, not mercy.” Jim seemed surprised. “No, I don’t want mercy. But as an old and very dead friend of mine used to say, it’s chess. And I never resign the game. The queen may be far more powerful than the king, but if you lose the king, you lose the game.”

Mycroft studied him for a moment, letting the hint of a smile appear on his face, and then he nodded, once. “Well, this has been most enjoyable. Now, before you go, the key, please.” He held out his hand.

Jim blinked, and shook his head, breaking into a confused smile. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“The key.” Mycroft nodded toward Lestrade. “His chains.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot it at home,” Jim said, grinning in disbelief. 

Mycroft shrugged and got to his feet, straightening his jacket. “It’s a good thing you didn’t need to try to leave in a hurry, then.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes—Mycroft. You don’t mind if I call you Mycroft, do you?” Jim stood  as well, and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I feel...remarkably close to you, seeing you lose your mind like this. But I’m not actually going to let you leave.”

“I’m sorry, but my movements aren’t really up to you anymore. I’ve spent all the time here that I need to.” Mycroft took a half step back.

Jim Moriarty raised a hand suddenly, smiling, and pointed at Mycroft’s chest. “Really don’t think so.”

Mycroft didn’t even glance down. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just lights. There’s no actual harm done.” Moriarty was clearly rattled now, staring as if Mycroft actually had lost his mind. Mycroft pointed silently upward, and then finally raised his own eyes. “It’s amazing how often people assume a laser pointer is attached to a gun.” 

Above them on the catwalk stood two men. One of them was John Watson. To be fair, they were both holding guns. John smiled happily down at them, wiggling the laser pointer he held in his left hand, making the light dance on Mycroft’s chest, and then he fired the gun he held in his right. 

It was all but soundless, and yet Mycroft still flinched as he felt the shot hit his chest. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, then looked down at his soaked shirt, and rolled his eyes back up to look at John, who was still smiling. “Sorry! Sorry. Just warming up.” He set down the water-pistol and pulled out his service weapon, brandishing it apologetically, shifting the laser pointer across to Moriarty, who seemed to be stuck between glaring and sulking at him.

Mycroft lifted his hand to his shirt, plucking it away from his skin. John had, at least, missed his tie, while still managing to deliver enough water to soak the left half of the visible white shirt. “I believe that you will find the rest of your forces have also been dealt with. John,” he raised his voice, but not his gaze. “You can tell him.”

Mycroft heard footsteps behind him, and then General Harrington appeared beside him in combat dress. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “I think we’re done with him,” Mycroft told him. Harrington flashed a brief grin at him, flicking his fingers once at another soldier who hurried forward to join him, taking hold of Moriarty’s arms. “You look shorter out of dress uniform.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Harrington said, tipping his head back to stare back at Mycroft. “Mr. Ellis sends his congratulations, and DCS Hunter is outside.” He held out Mycroft’s umbrella to him, which Mycroft accepted with a nod of thanks.

Everything was happening at once now. Mycroft was aware of bodies being transported around him, slung between two soldiers like furniture. He looked a question at Harrington. “Three dead, the rest surrendered or incapacitated.”

“Um, excuse me,” Moriarty interrupted. Mycroft didn’t even glance at him, but watched Harrington’s reaction instead as the General turned back toward his captive, now in handcuffs. “Hi, Jim Moriarty. I think you may have missed a step. Don’t you have to charge me with something if you arrest me? If that is, in fact, what is happening here.”

“Oh I’m not arresting you,” Harrington said quickly. “You’re not under arrest.”

“Um...” There was an awkward movement as Moriarty shifted his arms, trying to display the handcuffs from behind his back.

“You’re more just...captive,” Harrington answered. “You’re not a prisoner, you’re not in custody, and you’re not under arrest.”

Mycroft turned back to face him. “You made this personal. I thought this would be more appropriate, and in keeping with what you seem to prefer. None of this is official, you see. I’ve kept the police out of it as completely as I could—obviously they wanted to be involved, as Lestrade is one of their number, but that was in the way of shop-dressing. You wanted my attention, and that is precisely what you got.” Now that it was over, Mycroft allowed his façade to rest. He took a step nearer, looking down at the tiny man in his designer suit. 

“This wasn’t about law, or crime. This was a personal attack against me. You have had your day in court, and you chose to cheat. I won’t waste my time trying again. What you see is the result of my influence. I have called in favours, and none of this is happening. This has been one enormous training exercise, coordinating MI6, the Secret Service, the Army and RAF, the CIA, and a considerable amount of political orchestration, up to and including the connivance of the Prime Minister. If you thought to test your resources against mine, you have your result: _you... lose.”_

Mycroft held Moriarty’s gaze for a long moment, neither of them blinking. Then there was the sound of chain sliding onto the concrete floor, and Mycroft turned away.

Lestrade’s arms were being cut free of the ropes, and Mycroft deliberately moved his eyes away from the fresh blood underneath, where Greg had scraped his flesh raw, straining at his bonds. He was still sitting on the ground, Mycroft’s coat now across his lap. The duct tape across his mouth had been removed, but that had left its mark behind, as well. Greg lifted his head tiredly as he saw Mycroft’s shoes step closer. “Yeah, I know, I look like hell,” he rasped, raising his hand to explore his face gingerly.

“You’ve looked far better,” Mycroft agreed. “Can you stand?”

“Dunno yet.”

“Is there any point in telling you to wait for a stretcher?”

Greg looked up again, and tried to grin. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“Hardly an opinion, is it?” Mycroft said. He held out his umbrella. “Here.” Greg took hold of it, pulling himself onto his knees, wincing as his bones ground against the cold floor, and dragged himself up onto his feet, balancing on his heels as Mycroft held his left biceps. 

The soldier who had cut him loose bent to scoop up Mycroft’s coat and help Greg into it. “Ta,” Greg said, catching his breath. “Anyone bring any spare slippers?”

“That was my job,” came John Watson’s voice behind Mycroft. “I can’t get my money back if you wear them outside, though, so there’s a stretcher meeting you at the door.” John knelt down at Greg’s feet and coaxed his feet into a pair of oversized fur-lined slippers. 

“Stop kneeling in front of me,” Greg said, catching himself against John’s shoulder. “I feel like I should be knighting you.”

“At least... here.” John wrapped his arm around Greg’s waist and fit himself under Greg’s right shoulder. “I’ll let you do this, but just...don’t put too much weight on them until I’ve had a chance to check them.”

“No worries,” Greg gasped, taking his first step since he’d woken up to the face of James Moriarty. “I can tell when I’m doing something wrong because it fucking hurts.”

“Then just... don’t do that,” John said, helping him take another step. 

Greg seemed to learn where his injuries were with his first few movements, and handed Mycroft back his umbrella in favour of leaning more on John, and using Mycroft’s arm for balance. “Am I the worst of it, on our side?”

“You make it sound like a war,” Mycroft commented, watching their feet carefully as the three of them worked their way across the building.

“Well, wasn’t it?” Greg asked quietly.

Mycroft accepted the comment with a tip of his head. “Yes, you’re the worst of it. Overwhelming numbers and some serious overkill have kept alive as many of his men as possible.”

“I’m okay with a few deaths,” Greg admitted.

“I wasn’t asking permission,” Mycroft told him. 

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t want Sherlock here?” John asked quietly.

Mycroft looked at him. “I wanted Moriarty alive. Sherlock might have disagreed.”

Neither John nor Greg could later remember exactly what they’d heard and when, but suddenly Mycroft had pulled away from Greg and was turning, his umbrella clenched in both fists and slicing through the air. John caught Greg’s weight as they both ducked instinctively, only then hearing the footsteps, the shouting, Mycroft’s voice loudest, shouting _“Wedge,_ dammit!”

Moriarty lay on his side on the ground, his legs awkward and slow, head twisting furiously. Mycroft was on one knee beside him, his hands clamped around Moriarty’s face, his long fingers spread like claws, driving against the nerves that would force Jim’s jaws open while Harrington worked metal pieces and leather straps into place. When they were done, James Moriarty’s mouth was held open by a metal ring and some bent pieces of metal, his tongue flailing pointlessly in the open. Mycroft was leaning over him, peering into his mouth, ignoring the range of distressingly piercing vowel sounds pouring forth.

“I’m sorry—were you unprepared for the pain, dislocating your own shoulders like that? Poor planning on your part, I’m afraid,” Mycroft told his captive calmly, getting back to his feet and dusting the knees of his trousers. “It has never been my intention for you to die young. I’ve taken the precaution of seeing your dental records—should the worst happen, I would be prepared to identify your body. One filling in the second molar on the lower right when you were twenty-eight, and the first molar on the same side is a crown, from four years ago. Until recently, it was not the crown that you just tried to swallow.” Mycroft stepped back as Harrington and another soldier bent to grab Moriarty’s arms to haul him upright.

“Hang on,” Greg said suddenly. “John...” Mycroft looked up at his voice, frowning as he saw Greg carefully hobbling closer. “Here, Mycroft, can I...?” Mycroft smiled slightly, and let Greg take his umbrella again. “Good heft on it, this one,” he commented, catching Mycroft’s eye with a small smile. Then he lifted the tip off the ground and set it between Jim’s legs, pushing him onto his back and pinning his arms beneath him. His grip on John’s shoulder’s tightened, and he shoved the metal point of the umbrella hard against Jim’s testicles. Without looking up, he said, “General, guys... give me a minute, yeah?” He didn’t look up to see Mycroft nod his approval, before everyone stepped away, leaving John and Mycroft alone with Greg and his former captor.

“Do you know how many people’s blood Mycroft has on his hands?” Greg asked quietly, and waited a moment, as though expecting an answer. “Do you? Because I don’t. Most of the time, I don’t care. Because I know him. I trust that any blood on his hands is warranted. If anyone ends up dead because of Mycroft, I know they thoroughly deserved it. Me, I’ve never killed anyone. Really. People think it’d be the other way ‘round. It isn’t. And I’m not going to start with you. And it isn’t because I would mind having your blood on my hands. I’d be proud of that. It’s because you don’t actually have any blood in you, Mister Moriarty. All you are full of is _shit._ That’s all you are, that’s all you do. I don’t even want you on the bottom of my shoes.” 

He prodded one last time for emphasis, making Jim yelp and slide himself along the floor, barely breathing. Then he let John turn him away, accepting Mycroft’s arm as well. There was a renewed bout of screaming behind them. Mycroft smiled. 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right at the end of The Kidnapping of Greg Lestrade, this ties up a few loose ends, including the wedding ring and whatever happened to Jim Moriarty...

 

Outside, Mycroft was surprised to see DCS Alistair Hunter lingering beside the ambulance. John took charge of getting Greg settled on the stretcher, which looked like it was going to turn into a serious argument. 

“Don’t even think about it,” John said, closing his eyes in the face of Greg’s protestations. “Not in a million years. You’re getting full-body X-rays and CAT-scans and an MRI too if I think you need it.”

“All I need is a pair of crutches!”

Mycroft stepped in and set his hand on Greg’s. “Right now, you are exhibit A in the case against James Moriarty. It may not take place in a court, but you are not going anywhere outside of hospital until I am certain we have documented every single bruise and injury.”

“I just want a bath, some food, and to sleep for a week,” Greg muttered, but it was in the tone of someone who knew he couldn’t hope to win.

Mycroft gave him a faint smile, then turned away, catching the Superintendent’s eye. “DCS Hunter. Are you satisfied?”

Greg tried to push himself up on the stretcher, trying to twist and see the man. “Jesus, guys, you didn’t have to...”

Hunter took a step forward, into Greg’s line of sight. “Oh, shut up, Lestrade. You were one of twenty-two officers taken. You didn’t think I was going to ignore it, did you?”

“Sorry, sir,” Greg said weakly, glancing from Hunter to Mycroft and back, still clearly uncomfortable with the two of them being together. 

“John, get him into the ambulance, will you? I’ll be with you shortly.” Mycroft tipped his head to the side, and Hunter followed him.

“This is a pretty big mess you’ve got this time,” Hunter muttered, glancing around at the number of army uniforms and unconscious bodies being ferried into the building. “I know you’re good at covering things up, but this is a real monster.”

Mycroft gave him a half-smile, strolling along the side of the building, absently swinging his umbrella in his hand. “You’ll have every assistance with your side. I believe there is already a cover story in place, to do with extremists protesting, oh, something or other.” He ran a hand over his face, suddenly finding that he no longer cared about the details. He didn’t think he had ever felt like this before.

Hunter moved to stand in front of him, trying to catch his eye, and Mycroft realised he had come to a stop. “Are you sure you’re up to this yet?”

Mycroft looked past him for a long moment. It had been twenty-seven hours since he had slept in a bed, and then it had only been five hours’ sleep. He’d dozed a bit while awaiting reports in the last few hours before getting into a helicopter. Waterlooville. That was where they were. It had been such a long journey to get here, but it should have been so obvious, right from the start. 

“Yes, fine,” he said, his eyes still focused elsewhere. “You should be hearing from someone in the next few days. Have you planned your holidays yet?”

Hunter shook his head, smiling at the apparent non-sequitur into small talk. “I’ve got a week in June, might go to the Seychelles, haven’t really settled on anything yet.”

“Not seeing family in Glasgow?”

“No.” Hunter shifted his weight onto one leg, studying Mycroft with an uncertain look. “I generally like to leave the country to make sure I actually stay on vacation. What does this matter to you?”

Mycroft looked back at him. “You seemed a bit put out earlier that I wasn’t allowing you to steer me. I thought it only fair to repay you for your cooperation. A very dear friend of mine has agreed to a brief, informal chat with you. I can’t guarantee how far you can get in ten minutes, but you’ll have to rely on charm and do your best.”

“Who? And what does this have to do with my holidays?”

“She’ll be in town in June, and that seems the most likely time she’ll have for things. But don’t worry. Someone will be in touch. Probably Harry.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off again, briefly, his attention wandering. Then he was back, focusing on Hunter and smiling quickly, holding out his hand. “A pleasure to work with you, Alistair.”

Hunter shook his hand, and blinked a bit as though just waking up. “I—thank you.” He nodded at the ambulance, behind Mycroft. “I think they’re just about ready.”

Mycroft turned, and saw John standing beside the back doors, waiting for him and pretending to be patient about it. “So they are.”

John stepped forward to meet him as he returned. “The paramedics are trying to insist that only one of us can ride with him,” he said quietly.

Mycroft looked past John at the man in the back of the vehicle, fussing over Greg’s stretcher. “Interesting.” He walked past John to the back of the ambulance. “Excuse me. I believe you’re done here.”

The paramedic looked up at him, surprised. “Yep. Just waiting on which of you is to ride with him. We can only take one.”

Mycroft smiled.

As the ambulance pulled away, Mycroft completely ignored the paramedic’s disgusted arm waving on the track behind them, which was much bumpier in the larger vehicle than Mycroft remembered it being on the way in. He set his fingers against Greg’s wrist. Greg glanced over at him and smiled a bit. “I must have been out cold when they brought me in because I’m sure I’d remember a trip along this,” he said, rolling a little side to side as they jounced along.

“If it gets too painful—” John began.

“Now, it actually feels damn good,” Greg cut him off. “There’s a bit of padding under me, and I’m not freezing to death. I’m fine with this.”

Mycroft tightened his lips, but wasn’t able to convince anyone that it was a smile. 

“So what did I miss?” Greg asked, clearing his throat and glancing between them. “How long’s it been?”

“You don’t know what day it is?” John asked quickly.

“Well, by my count it should be Tuesday, but I dunno how long he had me out, do I?” Greg said defensively.

“It is Tuesday, so you’re all right there,” John told him.

“Okay. Last thing I remember before that was being on the platform at Waterloo, that woman under a train.”

“Sherlock’s sorted that all out. Moriarty staged it to get to you.”

Greg fumed, shaking his head at that. “Jesus. I remember the team seemed awfully big— I kept seeing new SOCO faces I didn’t know.”

“His crew. We don’t need to go into it now. The others were just drugged and left naked around the city, all just an elaborate ruse to get my attention.”

“Well he certainly got his share of that. You going to have him killed?” Greg asked bluntly, looking up at Mycroft.

“I’ve told you. No.”

John looked over at him. “I’m no particular supporter of the death penalty, but... really, Mycroft, in this case, I think... I think we should consider it.”

Mycroft held himself stiffly neutral. “ ‘We,’ John? Who is ‘we?’”

“You, Greg. Me. Sherlock.”

“What about Hunter? How many officers were taken?”

“Okay, ask him, but he’s never dealt with Moriarty before.”

“You already know what Sherlock would say.”

“He’d say kill the bastard.”

“This is not a democracy, John.” Mycroft shook his head. “I will not be drawn. There is no point allowing him a trial— he has no peers. There is no jury suitable. It could not be anything but biased. And the responsibility for the decisions that need to be made... no. This is my decision.”

“Don’t I deserve a say?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked at him. “No.”

Greg lowered his head back onto the pillow. “Fine.”

John looked back and forth between them. “What, that’s it?”

Greg snorted. “John, right now... yeah. Yeah, that’s it. I’d like him dead. But not so much that I’m willing to do it myself. Mycroft knows. And sometimes, you just learn... some decisions you really don’t want to be yours.”

“Oh...kay,” John said, clearly not understanding still, but giving up. “Right. I should probably get in touch with the hospital and let them know what we’ll need. Mycroft, d’you know which hospital we’ll be going to?”

Mycroft sighed, reaching into his pocket for his mobile. “No.” He ran his thumb across the screen, working it with one hand, his other hand still resting on Greg’s wrist. “Here. Anthea will be able to coordinate.” He passed the phone to John, already ringing.

Once John’s attention was firmly wrapped up in the arrangements for Greg’s arrival, Mycroft leaned closer to Greg and said, “Your ring is missing.”

Greg looked at his hand, then up at Mycroft. “Yeah. You, uh... I think he filmed that. You didn’t...?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I refused to watch whatever he sent.”

“God, that’s...” Greg sighed, his chest heaving, suddenly moving much more easily. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear that.”

“I’ve a very good idea. I take it he took it. It can be replaced.”

“No, well, he did take it, but. He made me swallow it.” Greg looked up at him, wary of his reaction.

Mycroft pursed his lips, looked down for a second, then nodded to himself. “John,” he said, turning to him. “How will platinum affect an MRI?”

John lowered the phone from his mouth. “Why, has he got a stent or something?”

“Platinum, white gold, sterling silver— will any of those cause problems?”

John frowned. “Well, they won’t be pulled out by the magnet, but they could distort the images.”

Mycroft nodded, once. “You’ll have to wait for the MRI, then, if you need it.”

John shook his head, puzzled, then gave up. “Oh, tell me later.” He returned his attention to the call.

Greg turned his arm, trying to catch Mycroft’s fingers. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?”

Mycroft blinked at him. “You have nothing to apologize for, Greg. It shouldn’t be damaged, but more importantly, I doubt it will damage you any further.”

“I’m gonna want it cleaned, though,” Greg said firmly. “Very, _very_ thoroughly.”

“It shall be done,” Mycroft told him. 

 

 

EPILOGUE

Jim woke up on a bed. It wasn’t surprising anymore. He’d been waking up on the same bed for the last three years. He sat up, felt his face, and opted to forego a shave. There was enough wood left to rekindle the fire and have a hot breakfast. Beans without toast, then. He’d tried to do eggs a few times, but they were all so tiny, and half of the time they’d been more small, crunchy creature than egg. Not worth it for the meat.

He missed bread. He missed sausages. He missed bacon and eggs. But of course that was the point, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and forced the cravings down. He stirred the fire, opened the can of beans and set it near the flames, and waited. He watched the label singe, peel, bounce into flame and almost immediately die away. He envied it. After a few more minutes, he ate the beans.

He went out across the beach and waded into the waves, having his morning shit, wank, and piss. He screamed for a while, swinging his arms and legs at the water, then collapsing and letting himself be washed up onto the shore. Mornings were always the hardest. Being faced with another twelve hours of nothing to do, no one to coerce, no distractions but himself and the basic necessities, all of which were far more work than they were supposed to be. Food should be supplied and prepared by other people. There should be coffee and tea. There should be meat, and spices, and herbs. There should be telephones and televisions and computers. God, he missed computers. There should be other people. But Jim hadn’t seen another human being since Mycroft Holmes. He was beginning to realise that Mycroft Holmes intended to be the last human James Moriarty would ever see.

He sat up, rubbed the sand off his skin, and turned back inland. Which direction should he choose today? He’d been heading east yesterday, but he was tired of east. Maybe it was time to try north again. He was still angry at west. North it was. 

He dragged himself back up to his shack and found his net bag. He’d made it himself, and still hated it. It was woven from every piece of plastic he’d saved from the last year. He’d carefully shredded the bags, wrappers, bottles, anything he could, and rolled them, melted them, softened them, chewed on them, and braided them into twine-like strands, then knotted them together. He’d tried fishing with it, but had never had much luck. He needed something to carry firewood. This was it. He headed off into the brush and bugs and worms and shit and weeds and started the day's collecting.

He knew he’d been here for more than three years. In that time, he thought he had learned the rules. First, he would never, ever see another human being. Second, he would never, ever hear another human being. He would have no batteries, no electricity, no contact with the world. Every three months, he might come across a box. Usually just over a cubic meter, a very cheap wood packing crate, and it would hold necessities. There were cans of food and sometimes a can opener (he had three, now). Dried food, too— dried fruit, sometimes dried meats, more often pulses. Flour, sugar, root vegetables, anything non-perishable. A few items of basic clothing: underwear, socks, canvas shoes. He usually stayed barefoot. Shorts, T-shirts, a fleece, a blanket, matches, basic first-aid supplies.  He was allowed a straight-edged razor, and soap, which surprised him. Then he realised that the razor could never be used as a weapon against anyone, as he would never see anyone. And no one would notice or care if he killed himself. If they did notice, they would probably be pleased.

He never saw how the boxes were delivered. The island he was on was larger than he could cross in a few days. The crates always turned up on the beaches. There were a few empty shacks on the island, all seemingly built at the same time and to the same plan. No one else lived on the island, so he had figured out that the huts were there to facilitate his exploration. As if walls made much of a difference. Occasionally there had been storms, and he’d been glad of the walls. He would have been happier if there had been glass in the windows, or actual doors, but that didn’t seem to have mattered to whoever built the huts. He missed plumbing. He missed toilet paper. There was a small stream on the west side of the island, but the last time he’d been there, there had been rain, and mud, and snakes, and he’d slipped, and a bird had startled into his face and crapped on him, and the snake had bitten him. At least he assumed it was a snake. Nothing much had happened afterwards, but his ankle had been sore. It could have been a stick, or brush, or a sharp rock. Or maybe he had died and this was hell.

He gathered up what dry brush and sticks he could, made note of a larger log that he’d have to come back for, and headed back to the closest shack. He didn’t seem to have the knack for building traps for animals, and so food was usually any shellfish or seaweed he came across, anything from the crates, and as much water as he could find, which wasn’t very much when he was mad at west, where the stream was. He’d probably have to move to another shack soon, which meant days of walking, or weeks if he stuck to the shore. And no bed. And a lot of carrying, although he was about due to find another supply crate.

He made a point of keeping all of the cans. At first, he didn’t understand why they were allowing him metal. But he had no electricity, no tools, no batteries. He had flattened a few cans and used them as shovels, back when he was still hoping there were animals on the island that he would be able to trap and eat. He’d caught a lizard, and a few snakes. But the process of skinning them and figuring out which bits could be eaten had really put him off. And he could get by on the shellfish, the crates, and the vegetation he’d found edible. There had been a book in the first crate, a survival guide. He’d thought it must have been a children’s camping book at first, and ignored it out of spite. Then he’d read it, and thought maybe it was meant for the army. Only when he was nearing the end, and it had talked about what not to expect— visitors, shipping routes nearby, planes overhead, dangerous animals, winter, rescue, contact— had he realized that it had been put together purely for his benefit. Then he had shredded it, screamed at it, ground the pages into dust between two rocks, and burned it. He’d regretted this later, and there had never been any other printed material in any of the other crates he’d found. Other than labels and packaging. He’d remembered most of what he’d read, anyway. 

He was ready to eat again, by the time he got back to the shack with his load of wood. There was some dried seaweed on the beach, and he scooped that up, tearing off pieces and shoving them into his mouth as he wandered the shallows, looking for anything he could catch. He found a squid-like tangle of tentacles dragging itself along the wet sand, chasing a wave back to the sea. He laughed, put his foot in the way, and the creature oozed up and across it. It was a decent size. He scooped it up, letting it cling to his fingers and climb up his arm as he looked for anything else that might be edible. There was a fish, dead, washed onto the shore. He picked that up, too.

Later, after he’d cooked and eaten the fish and some things in shells, he gave the octopus a few more pokes. It hadn’t moved much while he’d been eating. It had slid along the ground in the shack for a while, collecting dirt, leaves and debris. He finished off the last of his water. It was probably time to go get more. It used to be a lot harder, in the early days. The first crate he’d found had had a large plastic barrel in it. He’d spent a long time wondering what he should do with it, and had scraped some of the top edge down to make into his net. Then it had rained, and he’d figured out what it was for. But usually he rolled it back and forth to the stream, because it didn’t rain that often, and he’d taken the rain-collecting plastic and shredded it in another early tantrum. So far, he’d never found another one in one of the crates.

He was fairly sure by now that someone was aware that he was out here. He wondered what would happen when he died. Would the crates still appear? Would they notice that the last one hadn’t been touched? They seemed to be vaguely aware of his needs— the early crates had had a lot of basic supplies, but then the crates had become smaller, and it was rare that he got any functional, basic tools now. Clothes, food, consumables. If he got sick, would there be medicine? He had a few first aid kits— bandages, ointments, tweezers, iodine, rubbing alcohol, little more. If he broke a limb, or got cancer, or an infection and needed antibiotics, would a crate magically appear with what he needed? Would he be left to die?

The octopus had stopped moving. He nudged it with his toe. It felt different. He picked it up. It slopped over his hand, without moving. He carried it back to the water and dropped it in. It rolled back and forth with the water. He waited a few minutes, herding it back to the shallows if it started wandering too far out in the waves. It didn’t move on its own, though He nudged it a few more times, but... nothing. There was no life left in it. He rolled it down to where the beach was rockier, and stepped on it. No bones, no cartilage, nothing to put up any resistance to his foot or the rock. He scraped his foot clean, kicked it through the water, slid it against the sand. 

At first, he had thought about escape. He’d saved every single scrap of metal, every can, every bit of foil packaging. He’d tried to build a boat, a reflecting dish to flash the sun’s rays at any plane he saw going past. But he’d never seen a plane. Never heard an engine of any kind. He’d piled rocks on the beach spelling out messages. He’d built an enormous bonfire, ready to light it if there was ever the slightest hope that anyone would see it from sea or sky. Then he’d been tired one day, and borrowed some firewood from it, intending to replace it the next day. That never happened. After sitting for months unused, he nibbled the pile down over another few months. He’d thought that maybe they would send him batteries, a torch, a radio, anything electric. But no. 

He wondered if Mycroft Holmes would even know when he died. Would there be a taunting letter in one of the crates one day? A photograph? What had been said about him? Did anyone know that he had been involved? Was the name “Moriarty” mentioned in any of the newspapers? Would there someday be a journalist who wanted to reopen the question of Richard Brooks, or who Mycroft Holmes really was? 

After a few more years, and no contact, he decided that Mycroft Holmes had shipped him off to this island, and all but forgotten him. He had set the situation up, and probably had just enough oversight of it to make sure that the supply crates never turned up when he was near that area. But he probably didn’t know any more than that, and Jim Moriarty would never be worth another moment of time from either of the Holmes brothers, or anyone near them. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> For those interested, Alistair Hunter is played by Peter Capaldi (obviously), and General Harrington is played by Paterson Joseph. And yes, I would eat him.


End file.
